The Problems of Sherlock Holmes
by althechi
Summary: The untold story of the battle of wits between the greatest detective, Sherlock Holmes and Professor Moriarty, the Napoleon of Crime.
1. Foreword by SH

When I told my dear Watson that my duel with Professor Moriarty, if penned down, would have been the most brilliant contest of wits known to man, I fear I imparted a half-truth to him. In actuality, there exist numerous notes, written in a shorthand type known to my brother and I, made during these investigations and intellectual duels, some versions of which are stored in a government locker under "M" and other versions tucked safely away in a dusty warehouse near Chiswick (I believe) where they intend to remain untouched by human hands or unseen by mortal eye for fear of scandal.

I have taken pains to reconstruct my recollection of the final four problems that brought me in such a position to defeat the Napoleon of Crime, the last of which my biographer has faithfully related in the second volume of stories that feature my exploits, however embellished. As for the other three, now that my dear Watson is far removed from the hand of mortal vengeance from Moriarty or his ilk, I have sent my notes to the same literary agent who has published these small adventures of mine, to do what he will with them. Undoubtedly while the facts of the matter will be exaggerated beyond measure and the art of problem-solving thus lost through such sensationalism, perhaps it shall give some measure of this singular intellectual battle of our times. After all, I have little time or cause to dramatise them myself, for there are so many bee-hives in the county yet there remain so few hours in the day to cultivate or harvest them properly.

Sincerely,

S. H.


	2. The First Problem, Chapter 1

**THE FIRST PROBLEM**

December 31st, 1890

It was four days following the matter of the blue carbuncle, and all of London was abuzz with the New Year's celebrations, barring some spots of misery dotted about the city. One such nexus of woe lay within 221B Baker Street, where Sherlock Holmes was doing little else bar smoking his fourth pipe as he sat with his knees drawn up to his chest in front of a slow-burning fire. Doctor Watson had left with his wife to a small estate in the country, where he would spend the New Year at a reunion of military friends, leaving Holmes quite alone and fairly miserable in their rooms.

A few soft knocks at the door interrupted his quiet, sordid, reverie. Holmes rose from his chair, yawning as he stepped forth. The lock slid out and the door slowly opened, revealing a crowd of dour men, led by a singularly corpulent yet deceptively sharp gentleman in a coat and top hat.

Holmes greeted his brother warmly: "Ah, Mycroft. I assume you and your guests – who have arrived here in a fairly large hansom, which in turn has passed by the baker's at Saffron Hill – are not here to deliver good tidings to your beloved brother?"

His brother's response was in a considerably more curt tone. "I'm afraid not, dear brother. May we come in?"

With a gesture that spoke more quickly than words could have, Holmes invited his guests in. There were too few chairs for so many gentlemen, leaving the largest and youngest of the two to pace about as the others talked. It was Mycroft who spoke first.

"Well, the matter is – fourth pipe, Sherlock? – The matter is that there is certain matter of national importance that requires a certain, shall we say…delicate…touch. Trichonopoly, I assume?"

The younger Holmes replied, still in a casual tone, "Absolutely, my dear Mycroft. I find it considerably more palatable than the Brightleaf at this time of the year. Your second statement is considerably redundant, by the fact that the only dour gentlemen – or for that matter, any gentlemen who can bother to speak above whispers whom you associate with – are bound to wield certain ministerial or stately powers."

At this moment, one of the dour gentlemen, an old man with flecks of hair at the sides, spoke up: "Now, as much as I despise to interrupt upon what the two of you must deem brotherly bonding, there is indeed a matter of national importance."

Holmes's attention passed from his brother to the minister. "Ah, do tell, my dear Lord Cambridge."

"Yes, I suppose my name and face are a tad too famous for many covert matters. However, necessity deems it; one of our more…prominent colleagues has undergone a change for the worse."

"Are you sure, my dear Minister for Agriculture, that this is a case not best left to the psychiatrist or the doctor?"

"Not when he keeps two loaded pistols on him at all times and paces the house for invisible enemies."

At this, the detective leaned further in, his curiosity now piqued.

"Who is this man?"

"That must remain confidential, Mr. Holmes."

"My dear brother has done an exceedingly poor job in recommending you to me, or vice versa, if he did not tell you that I require all the facts at hand to conduct a case properly."

Mycroft turned to Lord Cambridge with a look of reproach in his eyes. After a few seconds of resistance, the minister turned back to Sherlock Holmes.

"I refer to the young Charles Dawson, under-secretary to Foreign Affairs."

"Hum! Many powers would do well to strike fear in a young man of his position. When did this transformation take place? Did he receive any threatening letters? Telegrams? Chalk-marks on the banister or the sundial?"

"Nothing so dramatic, I fear, barring his usual correspondence. His chambermaids and man-servants generally agree that this change came not soon after Christmastime."

"If the threat cannot be found directly in his letters, I assume it is not that some scandal has come to the surface? For even the worst man in London could not have such an effect – nay, Mr. Dawson fears for his life and not his reputation."

Lord Cambridge looked on with a slight look of puzzlement.

The elder Holmes leaned in to whisper, "He refers to Milverton."

His face clearing up, the minister spoke again, "Ah, I see. No, not a scandal, nor the master blackmailer…not this time, in the least. We fear a far more, shall we say, _sinister_ force."

"One could hardly do worse than Milverton…unless this is a cross-continental affair, perhaps with its roots deep in a Parisian university where our professor emeritus paces about a chalkboard refining his paper on the dynamics of a comet?"

With a sharp intake of breath, another minister, a younger man with a thick set of whiskers, asked, "So you do suspect Moriarty?"

Before Holmes could reply, the Agriculture Minister had interjected, "Who is Moriarty?"

Holmes looked at the Home Minister with a questioning eye, to which the latter responded with a nod.

"My dear Lord Cambridge, Professor James Edmund Moriarty – not to be confused with his less prominent brother James Edgar Moriarty, who to the best of my knowledge serves in Rhodesia at this very moment – is essentially the Napoleon of Crime, with stakes in half that is unknown and all that is evil in this city and far beyond. I believe he stands at the head of a massive organization whose sole purpose is to perpetrate and propagate the criminal element here and on the Continent. Who else could cause an active man of less than thirty years, a frequent participant in hunts and races and both a statesman and a sportsman, to such paranoia? If not a man directly connected to our Dawson, then there are few others with such widespread and such striking influence. However, all this remains conjecture, until I can gain some sample of Dawson's correspondence…?"

Without another word, Mycroft withdrew a thick stack of envelopes, telegrams, note-papers and other paraphernalia from his coat-pocket and deposited it on the side-table with a loud thud. With a sharp shout of exclamation, Holmes began thumbing through the stack quickly but meticulously.

"Telegram…Telegram from America…note from wife, note from brother-in-law, invitation from the Charing Cross Hunt…appeal from Lord Cambridge, gambling stub…Hum! Most of these pre-date Christmas, which I believe was the turning-point you have mentioned…I don't suppose he took to burning notes after that?"

With a gleam in his eye, the elder brother slowly slid a half-burnt scrap out from deep in the pile.

"He overpitched it; none too surprising, really. I have a refined version…"

"No, no, this one shall do fine. Hum! Porlock indeed, no doubt telling our dear Mr. Dawson his time was up or words to that effect."

Lord Cambridge interjected: "Who is this 'Porlock'?"

"A friend, in Moriarty's ranks. His handwriting is of a singular nature – perhaps a detriment to his role as an informant, but nonetheless, a useful ally…but surely, my dear Mycroft, you could have made all these deductions from your plush armchair at Pall Mall?"

At this, Mycroft, with a certain difficulty, spoke up, "I'm afraid, dear brother, that the practical aspects of this case are rather more in your realm. The note is obviously in some code that we have found to be intractable, and already three incidents of house-breaking have occurred."

"Therefore, you require me to track down his would-be assailants and to decipher this message from Porlock, and by extension make some move against Moriarty."

"Precisely. When shall you be able to visit Dawson?"

"As soon as my examination of this note is completed. Very well; this may be the lead I have been seeking, at any rate. Till then, I strongly advise an armed guard at Dawson's housing, and that you gentlemen – especially your bodyguards, who have been uncomfortably pacing about these small rooms for far too long – should head forth to enjoy the New Year."

To this, the Home Minister grimly replied, "I fear none of us may truly enjoy it while the shadow of Moriarty hangs over our heads. Good-bye, sir."

With that, the dour gentlemen left the room one by one to that same large hansom that had conveyed them to Baker Street, leaving Holmes in his element – with a problem before his very eyes and a mystery to be resolved. The seven per-cent solution could wait till another day.


End file.
